


You look like my brother in a dress: five things Billy said instead

by AmyWilldo



Category: Spin Out
Genre: F/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyWilldo/pseuds/AmyWilldo
Summary: He's got one night. One chance. If there's one thing Billy's not good at, it's thinking before he acts





	You look like my brother in a dress: five things Billy said instead

You look like my brother wearing a dress: five things Billy said instead

(1) Go on then

The blokes around the upended barrel go quiet, and the music throbs on. It’s not clear to Billy what’s silenced the collective throng of newly dumped, newly single jackaroos, and he’s about to open his mouth on the subject when he sees her.

She’s transformed, the dust of the morning: gone. The skin of the jillaroo he knows: gone. She’s gone already, that red dress, and the hair perfect, and he almost looks for a little pillbox of a hat, she’s way beyond the muster now, and he’s lost.

He barely hears the others over the thump of his heart, and Lucy’s brother has to dig the elbow in to make him realise it’s his turn.

“Those Sydney blokes won’t know what hit’em, Lucy. You scrub up pretty good.” 

She smiles, in exactly the same way that she smiles at all the other guys. Which he’s not. Except he is now.

The words echo in his ears the next morning, watching her ute eat the dust, watching her leave.

(2) Take a long walk off a short pier

He sees her before the others, and he can’t swallow. It’s as if she’s taken a knife to his heart, and twisted. A killer in red. She’s taken his childhood and killed it stone dead. She wasn’t meant to grow up, not like this. Not in the way that’s making his pants tight and his hands all sweaty. It’s not like there haven’t been jokes before, Billy and Lucy, sitting in a tree, but the jokes he can turn back on the tellers, and Sparrow provides enough cover, the third wheel to end all third wheels, the buffer, the person who makes them a team, and not the punch line to the story. It’s all her fault. Not his.  
Even if it was, what kind of a dick move is it to bring out the no holds barred red dress, that hugs her figure, and drops her neckline and turns her into a girl, the girl, at the last possible minute. It’s totally a dick move. It’s calculated. In the same way that his brick on the accelerator this morning wasn’t, and in the way that his ute spun out and nearly killed her. He doesn’t calculate. He acts. It usually works. That’s the difference between them. She’s the calculator, and for whatever reason, she wants him dead, and this is her weapon of choice, the red dress when it’s too late. 

He can feel the seconds slowing, the pulse in his ear, as the crowd parts before her like the red sea, feel the clicking of those heels, borrowed or bartered and not her usual boots, like they’re stamping on his spine, leaving a mark. The men around the barrel all bray, even her brother, all of them with the compliments and he’s not listening. He’s waiting to hit her where it hurts. Like this is hurting him.

There’s silence, and he drops it. “You look like a carnival ride. Like a Kewpie doll. The prize that no one wants.”

He can see her step back. Then step forward again. The perfect lips parted. The capable hands on her hips, rather than punching him. If it’s words he’s given her, punching in the mouth, she’s ready and aiming, and he waits.

“Beg to differ. Or weren’t you listening to your mates?”

He looks down at the barrel, because he doesn’t want to meet her eyes. Tosses back the tail end of the beer, sour and warm. Looks over her shoulder. “Let me make it plainer then. The prize that I don’t want. Try your luck somewhere else, little girl.”

Give her credit, she doesn’t flinch. Turns on her heel, and walks off. He hits the grog pretty hard after. Wakes up solo. Sparrow doesn’t talk to him for a week. She’s gone.

(3) Get it done

He knows he’s going to have to pay after the fuck up that morning. He just doesn’t quite know how, or how much. Or when, because she’s leaving after the dance. That’s what she’s said. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. All afternoon, Sparrow’s been sprouting off about Mary, and how much he’s going to put himself on the line for just a shot, because she’s his woman, and he’s her man, ever since kindergarten, even if she doesn’t know it, and in theory, that’s all reasonable, but Sparrow’s a long streak of shitty coward, and the end of the night’s going to find him still pining, and alone. Makes it hard to hide exactly how scared he is, himself. He’s shitting bricks.

He nearly killed her, acting stupid this morning. His ute, her car door, and the beat of a second, and she could have been gone, and it didn’t really hit him until this afternoon, scrubbing up in the creek. He didn’t think. He doesn’t think. She could have died, because of him, and she’s going, and he doesn’t have the words to say how sorry he is. Words aren’t his strong point. She’s usually on the same wavelength as him, and he doesn’t need to use them. They’ve been friends since they were kids, and he knows, he fucking knows that they’re not kids anymore, and that’s fine. They’ve been coming to this dance forever, the pair of them, suit and a tie for her, and some kind of a frock for her, the frocks that do the district like a lending library, and she’s his wingman, and he’s hers, and he’s watched her take blokes out the door, and come back the next day, and for all he knows, she’s watched him with the girls of a night, and that’s fine too. He even knows what she likes, because she’s complained about the duds, and he’s laughed for her, the blokes who don’t get it, and she’s boasted about the guys who did, and that’s all been fine. She’s his mate. He should be looking out for her tonight, and he’s going to, especially after this morning. Even after this morning.

When he sees her, it’s new. It’s not nothing. She’s wearing the red dress. The one that Taylah wore the year she partnered up. The one that Merline wore the year after. And Shazza. It’s a declaration of intent. The heels, too. He’s pretty sure what it is she’s telling him. Even if he didn’t get it with the sledgehammer of a dress, he’s getting it from the blokes around the table, even her brother, elbow to the ribs. They know what’s what. He can feel the sweat down the back of his neck. 

He’s plenty of time to look her up and down as she walks across the room, plenty of time to think, but he’s got nothing. Even when the others finish with the compliments, and she’s meeting his eyes, perfectly aware of what she’s done to him, and he shouldn’t have worn the pants he’s wearing, he can’t think.

“Close your mouth, Billy, the flies’ll get in,” she says. 

He claps the blokes on the back, and nods to Sparrow. “Don’t wait up,” is what he says, and Sparrow nods back, like he has the faintest clue what’s on Billy’s mind. Which is impossible, because not even Billy knows what’s on Billy’s mind.

When he gets to her, the longest way possible around the barrel, she’s one eyebrow up. Waiting.

“Make me,” he says. And waits back.

“Ha. Oh princess,” she says, and she’s laughing at him, “You think this dress is for you? As a going away present, after this morning?” 

“You know it is.” He steps in, a little, and he can feel her skirt touch his fingertips. It’s shaking, or he is.

“You do absolutely nothing for me, Billy. I’m looking forward to the guys of Sydney. You know, the ones who don’t try to kill me with their cars.” He catches her looking at his mouth, and he steps in a bit closer. He can smell the perfume on her borrowed dress, and under that, her sweat, which he knows all too well. It’s still her.

“So, I do nothing for you. Then you won’t mind this,” and he steps in further, and drops his head down to meet hers, and stops, close enough that he can feel her breath on his mouth. As inevitable as a car with no brakes, spinning in the dust, and she falls into him, and he vaguely hears Sparrow calling something unintelligible over the explosion that is Lucy kissing him back, and it all fades into nothing. 

The back of his ute is clean, and he hops his sleeping dog over to the front seat, and she shakes her head, and laughs. “I must be crazy,” she says, and he doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the night, and neither does she, and he pulls out all the stops he has, presses all the buttons he can, takes all the brakes off, and she seems to like it well enough. At some point, he sleeps.

The sunlight hits him in the eyes like a punch, and he braces for the hangover that doesn’t come. “Morning,” he says, but she’s gone. 

(4) Say goodbye

It’s hit him pretty hard, that she’s that pissed she’s going to leave. Leave him, leave Sparrow, leave the dog, the high performance jackaroo team that they have, and find something new. Something better. Something not here. When he thinks about leaving, he can’t see it. It’s a blur, like when the tv channel’s not tuned right. The static between the stations. Something more, she said. He’s always trying for the something more, but it’s the something more right here. The thing in front of his nose. If he can do a trick with the car, can he do it better. More spectacular, more life threatening, something that’ll get his blood pumping, get the audience cheering, get her to smile when he’s pulled it off, because she’s always played along in the past. She’s told him he’s an idiot before. He’s almost hit her with the car before too, and she’s not walked out in the past, so she’s not going to walk out now. 

Probably.

So, he’s not taking it all that seriously. Not really. He’s scrubbed up for the dance and worn the same suit that he’s worn since he stopped growing, and he’s with the same fellas, who are complaining about the same girls as they’ve complained about since they stopped growing, and nothing’s going to change. Not for him, not for her, not for anyone, no matter what line of bulldust they’re spinning tonight. Nothing ever really changes in their mob.

When he sees her, though. When he sees her, he knows she’s serious. She’s leaving, and she’s growing up, and she’s leaving him behind. She’s all in red, like a fighter, and her hair’s done, and her makeup’s slick, and she’s a woman, not just a jillaroo, and he doesn’t know how to play this game to win.

So he doesn’t. She walks over, all hips, and triumph, and ready to grind him to the dust for what he did that morning, and the guys all pay their dues, all full of compliments, and when it gets to his turn, when everyone looks at him to see what he’s going to do next, he’s afraid to let his mouth say anything, because he doesn’t know whether he’s going to beg her to stay, and so he tips his hat, and he takes himself outside.

As he leaves, he can hear her calling after him, something about not being a coward, princess, and it stings. He hears, later, that she left after he did, went home, and packed, and drove for Sydney that night.

(5) Scrubbing up

His brother’s tie swings around his neck. It’s been years since he left town. He’s in the Pilbara, in the mining game, wife and kids, a nephew and a niece, and cute as kids get, all tufty hair and big eyes. 

They don’t talk all that often, but they send photos. Steve doesn’t miss the outback, he says. Places change, he says, people don’t. His wife’s from there. 

He remembers the day Steve left for Perth, and the mining degree, like it was yesterday. His dad cried. His mother looked proud as punch. He can’t remember where Lucy was, they would have been just in high school, and perhaps she wasn’t about, although he can’t imagine it. Lucy, and him, and Sparrow, and the dog, and the utes, constant as the sky above, his mother’d say. 

He’d stopped back there, earlier that afternoon, and found the tie. His mum had tied it for him, and asked how the morning’d been, and he’d dodged the question. Sparrow’d dobbed him in, about the brick, and the car and Lucy’s ute stalling, and although Sparrow’d done the right thing, claimed Billy’d known what he was doing the whole time, his mum had clopped him on the shoulder. She’d known, sure enough. His dad shook his head, and finished his tea, and headed back out to the paddocks.

He doesn’t know quite what he’s going to do in Sydney. He doesn’t have a clear picture on what she’s thinking. His bag’s in the back of the ute, though. He’s got a couple of thousand saved in the bank, and if they have to sleep in the cars for the first couple of months, he can do that too. 

Thing is, he hasn’t quite decided whether he’s doing it or not. It kills him that she’s the one who’s calling it first. He’s meant to be the one who pushes the boundaries, like this morning, not her, and he’s not tried the follower role before. Not quite sure how to pull it off. That face, though, this morning. Some boundaries aren’t meant to be pushed.

Sparrow’s wittering on about Mary, like he always does, and that’s never going to change. JJ, and Rooter, and Lucy’s brother Tubby, have, once again, been dumped by their sheilas and are consoling themselves with beer, and that’s never going to change. She’s probably right. She needs more than this. He wants her to have it. The beer’s a bit flat, and the music’s about the same, until he sees her. 

She’s all in red, like the best sunrise over the plains, from her lipstick, her dress, her shoes, her everything and the smile she gives him, and he knows his jaw’s dropped and he doesn’t care, is smug. Let her have it.

“Good goddamn, Lucy,” Tubby says, and Lucy nods at her brother.

JJ whistles. Rooter fans himself. 

“You look lovely tonight, Lucy,” Sparrow says, and Lucy tells him a polite thank you, and that Mary looks better, and Sparrow swallows nervously.

“Well,” Lucy asks, and he can’t tell if she’s nervous or not. Time to roll the dice.

“I’m coming with you, Luce,” he says. “God, you’re gorgeous.”


End file.
